


Clair(e)voyance 4.0

by notevenjokingfic



Series: Clair(e)voyance [4]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 14:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenjokingfic/pseuds/notevenjokingfic





	1. 4.1:  Carnage

“Dinna let her in here.” 

She had heard him. Heard his Scots burr underneath the chaos of the room. He sounded weak. There was pain in his voice. Like the crack in a windshield that threatened to grow, to spread. To shatter him. 

“No one gets in!” She heard John Grey bark the order. 

She was a few seconds too slow. The officer turned quickly, prevented Claire from entering. She pushed against his chest.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” she growled. 

_Alive._

_He was alive._

The relief ran through her, draining her. 

But now her terror had been replaced with fear of a different sort. _How badly was he hurt?_

She needed to see him, to reassure herself that he was okay.

She could smell the blood. Strong. Metallic. Tangy. The scent filled her nostrils. She strained her ears to listen for him again, pushed against the cop. He wouldn’t budge. 

“JOHN!”

She tried looking past the officer into the room anxious to find John Grey, but the man was too tall. She took a deep breath, stepped back. Raised her hands up as if in surrender. That was all it took. The cop mistook her gesture for acquiesce, and relaxed. Relaxed just enough. When he turned to look over his shoulder at the action behind him, she slipped past him into the room. 

Carnage.

She catalogued the man lying on the ground, blood pouring from the gunshot wound in his neck. Eyes wide open. Glazed. Lifeless.

Her attention shifted to Jamie.

Her eyes raked over him, assessed him as she would a corpse on her table. His bruised face was barely recognizable. A cut high on his cheekbone. One eye swollen shut, the other wild, searching the room for someone to help him. The bloodied knuckles with their broken skin indicated obvious defensive wounds.

She moved slowly as if she were approaching a wounded, dangerous animal. 

“Jamie?”

“Dinna touch me,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. 

His lower lip was cut. The soft flesh torn. Pink saliva trailed down his chin. His nose was bloody. Everything was swollen. He was seated backwards, his head resting on the high back of a chair, his hands tied to the legs. Obvious dislocated shoulder. She could tell by his breathing that a rib was broken, probably several of them.

His body. His beautiful body. Torn to pieces. Raised welts and ripped skin. Lacerations. Contusions. Black and blue. 

She crouched down. Crawled over to him through his blood that had pooled under him.

“Jamie, please…”

“Dinna touch me. I mean it.” 

“James,” John said, leaning down to his friend. “She’s a doctor for Christ’s sake, let her treat you until the ambulance arrives.”

“NO.” Again. Forcefully, but quietly. His voice almost gone. “I dinna want her here, I dinna want her to touch me. She canna touch me, John.”

Claire reared back. Sat hard on the floor. 

It all made sense now. 

He didn’t want her to _touch_ because he didn’t want her to _see._

“I can’t,” she promised him, scrabbling to her knees to get closer him, to his face, to talk to him. Panic caused the bile to rise in her throat. She needed to make him understand. “I told you that. It’s only us. Nothing else.” She heard the desperation in her own voice.

Jamie’s mouth worked, his eyes pleading with her. 

“Leave,” he said. “Now.” 

John called an officer over, pointed to the cords. “Get those off.” 

He leaned down to speak to Jamie. “What the fuck is going on, James? This is Claire. She’s a doctor, let her help.”

“Please.” One word. One simple word spilled from his battered lips. 

She would deny him nothing. Not now. Not ever.

“You love me, remember?” she whispered, eye level with him now. Tears streamed down her face. Her fists clenched in an effort not to brush the burnished red curls off his sweaty forehead. 

His eyes filled up, too. 

He said nothing.

The scream of sirens got louder. Stopped. 

He closed his eyes shutting her out completely.

She stood on trembling legs. 

Claire stepped over to the body on the floor.

“Let me help,” she said to the John Grey.

“Claire. You’ve done enough,” he said, shaking his head.

“No, John, I haven’t.” She pinned her amber gaze on him, like a tiger eyeing its prey. 

“You can’t have anything more to do with this case! You’re James’ fiancée,” John motioned to her clothes. “You’ve already fucked up my crime scene crawling on the floor. Christ, Claire, you’re covered in blood.”

She closed her eyes. Took a deep, calming breath.

“You don’t _understand_, John.” Claire admitted. “This is my fault. This is all my fault.” 


	2. 4.2:  Three Weeks Earlier

##  **THREE WEEKS EARLIER**

“Say it again,” she panted as his tongue traced across the top of her breast.

“My wife,” he said, “_Mo bhean_.”

“And husband?” she asked, holding his head in her hands. She arched her back. Pushed her nipple deeper into his mouth. 

“_An duine agam_.” He muttered against her skin. He pulled hard, scraped his teeth across the hard nub. Curled his tongue over it. Claire groaned as the sensation caused a contraction between her legs.

“_Tha gaol agam ort_,” she said, pulling his hair to lift his head from her breast to her mouth. “I know that one.”

“Aye, ye do,” he smiled wickedly, tasting her tongue in a hot kiss. 

“So ‘_agam_’,” she said, flicking her tongue over his lower lip, “What’s that mean? How does it fit into ‘husband’ and ‘I love you’?”

Jamie settled himself between Claire’s thighs, grabbed her breast in his hand. Kneaded it. Played with her nipple. 

“Translated literally, ‘husband’ is ‘a man I have’.” His breath came faster as he grazed his teeth over her earlobe causing her to shiver. “‘Yes, love I have’ is the other.” 

Claire grabbed his face again. Looked into the depths of his indigo eyes. “I have a man, and a love.”

She rolled her hips in invitation, reached down between them. She wrapped her fingers around the hard length of him, and rubbed her thumb over his tip.   
He groaned with pleasure. Rocked his hips in anticipation. 

“_A Dhia_, Sorcha, can we stop with the Gaelic lessons now?” He closed his eyes, kissed her again. “I’m ready to burst.”

“Talk to me,” she whispered when he released her lips. “In Gaelic.”

He huffed in disbelief, then groaned in satisfaction as she maneuvered him into her. 

But talk he did. 

His words of desire were spoken against her lips, over her throat. Between the kisses he placed on that sensitive spot behind her ear. Words were interspersed between his movements. _Solasta._ He slid into her. _Neach-Gaoil. _ Retracted. _Mo boireannach. _Flexed his hips to fill her again. 

_Luminous. Sweetheart. My woman. _

As his movements quickened he spoke other words she didn’t know. Hard, guttural words. Dirty words he would never translate but would whisper in her ear. Words that generated heat between her thighs. 

Every word was a spark. Hotter. Harder. Faster.

Claire luxuriated in the feel of him. Ground herself into him. Savoured every sensation. The tension in her stretched like a bow. Her back arched farther and farther as she rode him. Jamie gripped her hips, pumped himself into her until she shouted once, then collapsed. He grit his teeth until she roused herself, found a rhythm again, stroked him until he exploded. 

They lay panting. Sweat beaded between her breasts, clung to the auburn curls on his chest. Hearts pounded against each other. Jamie lifted a hand to push the curls away from Claire’s face. 

“_Leasan Gàidhlig crìochnaichte_,” he chuckled, kissing the mess of curls atop her head.

“_Ciamar a rinn mi?_,” she giggled, lifting her head to smile at him. 

“Passed with flying colours, Sorcha.” Jamie yawned loudly. “Although, I’m no’ sure I can survive any more of these intensive lessons.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He walked out of the RAF Mildenhall Air Force base a civilian. He searched his pockets for a cigarette, turning his body away from the wind to light it. He took a long drag, feeling the smoke fill his lungs, exhaling through his nose like a dragon as the great plumes floated up into his face.

He squinted through the smoke up at the grey skies above the barracks. He was so sick of this place. So tired of taking orders. 

The Military. It was his greatest pride. His worst prison. 

He’d spent the last of his years at Mildenhall, United Kingdom. The only air refueling wing in Europe. He had been sent to this ridiculous outpost pumping petrol into aircrafts, and doing minor repairs. He was told it would be his “final stop”. Multiple inquests into his “outbursts” had reached a dead end when he was stationed in other places. Trouble followed him wherever he went. Nothing stuck enough to cause him to be Dismissed with Disgrace, so they moved him from post to post. They finally planted him in that godforsaken plot of land in the East of England. 

But today he was done. Twenty years in the Royal Air Force, in service to Her Majesty. He’d get a full pension regardless of the court martials he’d narrowly escaped over the years.

He had money. He had time. 

And he decided to look up the one person who had always been kind to him.   
Taking a final drag, he flicked the cigarette off to the side. He flipped up the collar of his coat, the Autumn wind biting the back of his neck. 

Determined, he walked into town.


	3. 4.3:  Landing in America

He landed in America clutching his army duffle and the last letter he’d received. He caught a cab from the airport. Gave the return address written on the envelope. He took in his surroundings carefully, watched the city loom larger in front of him. Noted as the neighbourhoods changed from poor to privileged.

They pulled up in front of a house in a rather pretty area, and he got out. Paid the driver. Took his bag from the trunk. He walked up and rang the bell. Smiled at the attractive young girl who answered the door. 

His smiled dropped when she said, “No one lives here by that name.”

He asked again. Showed her the envelope. It had been a while between letters, but he thought it was due to him being transferred to different bases and the post not catching up with him.

She shook her head. She said her parents had bought the house about three years ago. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Three years? Had it been that long? He cursed in a low voice. That’s when she called for her father. The man who came to the door discreetly pushed the girl behind him and into the house. The gentleman stepped out onto the porch, confirmed the story. No, he didn’t know what had happened to the people who sold it. 

The door closed slowly in his face, the homeowner’s apologetic smile lingering. He hung his head. Watched the light from the interior being sliced thinner and thinner across his boots until he was alone. Dusk wrapped around him in this strange city leaving him with nowhere to go. He pulled his coat collar tighter around his neck.

It never occurred to him that they might have moved.

He walked across the street. Rang another doorbell, and asked those people if they knew what happened to their neighbours across the road. It took four houses and an elderly lady before he got an answer. 

A fatal accident. The widow moved back home. To England, she thought. Yes, it was England. London, in fact. 

He stood on the pavement unsure of what to do next. He could feel his anger rising. 

He needed a drink.

He walked for a while until he found a decent looking pub. The more he drank the angrier he got. Why wasn’t he told? Why didn’t his widow let him know? Why didn’t the army notify him? He sat there for hours wondering why the _fuck _he hadn’t been informed. 

A woman approached him at the bar. Flirty. Tipsy. She asked if he wanted company. He shook his head. Ordered another whisky. She persisted, her breath smelling of too much beer. Her words slurred. She rubbed her tits against his arm. He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath. He tamped down his temper. Why couldn’t the bitch do as she was told? When she grabbed him high on his thigh he couldn’t control his reaction. His left arm flew, and he backhanded her. 

The bar erupted. 

Fifteen minutes later he walked out carrying his duffle bag over his shoulder before the police could arrive. He had a few rough cuts on his knuckles, a couple of sore ribs, a bruise forming on his jaw. But he left three guys on the floor. One had been knocked out when his head hit the table as he fell backwards from the punch to his head. Another was writhing on the floor clutching his balls. The last one ended up with a broken arm when the guy dared to grab him around the neck. 

All three were bleeding from some orifice. 

He walked in the shadows until he reached an area with enough traffic where he could hail a cab. He decided to head back to the airport. 

There was nothing for him here. 

His answers lay in London. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_“Is e mo ainm Claire._” 

Jamie looked up from his leather chair where he had been watching the news. Not again.

_“Ciamar a tha thu?”_

He shook his head. 

_“Càite bheil an stad bus?”_

He snorted out loud. Thank God she couldn’t hear him.

_“Càite bheil an taigh-beag?”_

“Christ!” Jamie stood up, headed toward the stairs. He couldn’t listen to this. Her pronunciation set his back teeth on edge. He’d tried to correct her in the beginning but she just got pissed off. It was better for him to be far away from her when she did her Gaelic lessons.

He quickly changed into his running clothes. Trotted down the stairs. 

“Where are you going?” she said, way too loudly because of the earbuds still stuck in her ears.

He gestured to his running clothes.

“Dinner will be ready soon!” Louder this time.

Jamie made a motion with his hand for her to take the headphones out.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire laughed sheepishly, “I’m practicing my Gaelic.”

“Oh, is that what it was?” Jamie feigned surprise.

“Shut up. Is it that bad?”

“Sorcha,” Jamie sighed, walking up to her and gathering her in his arms. “Ye dinna have to do this. I keep tellin’ ye, just learn the vows. I dinna understand why ye’re tryin’ tae learn the entire Gaelic language.”

“Because,” Claire said promptly, her hands placed against his wide chest, “I want to know what Jenny says about me when she speaks to you. She knows damn well I don’t understand her. And she only flips into Gaelic when she doesn’t want me to know what you both are talking about. And you bloody well know that it bugs me.”

“Claire. I’d tell ye if she said something bad,” Jamie promised, hand on his heart.

“You would not,” Claire snapped back. She fumbled with the earbuds, pushed them back in. “You get a half hour and that’s it,” she said, poking him in the chest.

She pulled out her phone, and pressed play.

He grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Kissed her soundly.

_“Bidh faiceallach,”_ she said. 

“It’s more guttural than that,” he said. “Try….” At her frown he decided to give up for now. He shrugged, turned on his heel, and headed for the door.

The last thing Jamie heard as he shut it behind him was “_Dè a chosgas sin?_”. 

He stepped off the front step, started off on a slow jog to warm up. 

“All ye need to know how to say is ‘_Leig leinn seinn’_ anyway,” he muttered to himself as he rounded the corner picking up speed.

A half hour later he slowed to a walk on the pavement in front of the house.   
He paced a bit, hands on hips, waiting for his breath to regulate. He glanced down. 

Chief Inspector James Fraser narrowed his eyes. 

He crouched down to investigate. A pile of cigarettes were clustered on the sidewalk in front of the house as if someone had been standing there a long time. They hadn’t been there when he left. 

He looked around. There wasn’t anyone about. 

Jamie felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. He’d been a cop a long time. 

Something was wrong. 

Very wrong.

He walked up the path, stretched like he normally did. His senses were on high alert for a sound, or a step behind him. His eyes casually scanned the darker corners and shadows of the street. 

Silence. 

He opened the door of the townhouse and was greeted with the smell of home cooking. Low lights. Soft music. Warmth.

He toed off his trainers, set them to the side. He shot the dead bolt before heading upstairs for a quick shower.

He turned his face into the hot spray, mentally reviewing the scene. It could be nothing. Someone emptying out the butts from their parked car before driving off. He wasn’t one to keep looking over his shoulder, or waiting for the sky to fall.

And yet, there was something about that mess on the sidewalk that left him feeling cold. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Gaelic translations:

* Is e mo ainm Claire – My name is Claire  
* Ciamar a tha thu? – How are you?  
* Càite bheil an stad bus – Where is the bus stop?  
* Càite bheil an taigh-beag? – Where is the toilet?  
* Bidh faiceallach – Be careful  
* Dè a chosgas sin – What does that cost?  
* Leig leinn seinn – Let’s have sex


	4. 4.4:  One Week Earlier

##  **ONE WEEK EARLIER**

“And ye didna find anything?” 

Chief Inspector James Fraser leaned back in his chair. Surveyed the two young officers in front of him.

“No, Sir.”

Jamie tapped the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. “Go back. Take Angus Mohr with ye. He’ll show ye how to toss a place until ye find what ye need.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. As they left Jamie looked through the window of his office. 

His own station. 

He had some young officers, largely untested. Some were older, ready to retire. Some followed him from New Scotland Yard to Snow Hill in the heart of London.

And he would trust every one of them with his life.

When Jamie had bargained for his own station with Deputy Commissioner Dunsany he knew it was a risk. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he could lead, but was he ready to sit back and support rather than get out and get his hands dirty? Not to mention the mountains of paperwork.

His new job was safer. He wasn’t out there hunting criminals the way he used to which relieved him, if he was honest. He was looking forward to a long life with Claire. He didn’t need some mad man taking him out now. Before Claire that kind of thing didn’t bother him. 

He didn’t _know_ fear because he had nothing _to_ fear. 

He had been alone. No one to leave behind. No children to leave fatherless. His sister would miss him if he died, but she had her own family, her own life. Husband. Sons. Daughters.

His fellow officers would raise a dram at his wake. Talk about him from time to time. Remember him fondly, he hoped. Beyond that his life had been blank.

Now he had the best of both worlds. A nice safe office, and the ability to use his wits to solve a crime without being on the firing line. Jamie always liked the mental part of police work, putting the pieces together. He was good at it. The added bonus was not getting shot at like he used to.

Which was a relief to Claire.

Claire. 

He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d said yes. He’d moved himself in leaving her no doubt about his intentions. She’d accepted his ring, left for work, and called him an hour later asking if he was sure. 

He smiled, remembering -

_“We don’t have to do this, Jamie. I mean, I’m not that old fashioned that I need to get married to be with you.” He heard the slight tremor in her voice. Apprehensive. Cautious._

_“Weel, I am that old fashioned. Always wanted to be marrit.” He hoped she heard the smile in his tone._

_Three hours later she called again._

_“But what if you decide you don’t want to live with a freak anymore? Then it’s messy.”_

_“Aye, weel, if by freak ye mean that time ye licked the whipping cream off my –“_

_“You know bloody well what I’m talking about, James Fraser.”_

_“Sorcha. I’m makin’ ye my wife. Now, stop calling me an’ distractin’ me while I’m tryin’ to unpack and take up residence here. Oh - and Sorcha?”_

_“Hmmm?”_

_“Bring home some of that whipping cream.” _

She gave him every reason not to commit to her. She was too insecure. She was stuck in her ways. She wasn’t that great in bed, which actually had him laughing so hard she had hung up on him.

For the millionth time since he’d found Claire, Jamie admitted that life was good.

The phone on his desk rang. He shook off the memories. Picked up the receiver. 

“Chief Inspector Fraser.”

He picked up the accent right away. Assured the caller that of course he remembered him, and immediately asked how he could help.

“Three guys. All busted up, along with a hooker. I mean, the bartender said it happened in a flash. This guy, right? Comes in. Sits at the bar. Doesn’t bother anybody. Hooker approaches him looking for business. Just like that, she’s knocked out. Three men jump him, and just like that, they’re down. Guy picks up his shit, walks out like nothin’ happened.” 

Jamie leaned forward, listened intently. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

“Bartender called the cops but they couldn’t find him,” the American cop continued, “CCTV picks him up leaving the bar. He resurfaces at the airport. Airport video shows he boarded a flight to London. So, I says to my Commanding Officer, I know a guy. Got a bit of a run around at Scotland Yard, but finally found ya. Congrats on the promotion, by the way.”

“Aye, thanks,” Jamie muttered. “Can ye send me the video? Whatever pictures ye have?”

“Sure. Who’s your guy?”

“Name’s Geordie. Hold on and I’ll transfer ye. We’ll see what we can do and get back to ye soon. Okay?”

They signed off. Jamie transferred him, then walked over to Geordie’s desk to listen to the rest of the conversation. 

Thirty minutes later the evidence came through. They watched as the attacker left the bar as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Jamie’s cat-like eyes didn’t miss a thing. The straight posture. Shaved head. The jacket tight across his shoulders. Military boots. Army duffle. He’d seen this type before. 

It didn’t take Geordie long to identify the man. He was government issued. Name, rank and serial number all there in the system.

Especially the name.

“What ye thinkin’?” Geordie asked, looking up at his boss with concern.

“Get someone to run a check on the name. Next of kin. All of it. My gut tells me he’s the worst kind of trouble.” Jamie looked around the station. 

“Angus! Rupert!” he shouted, motioning to his office. “You, too.” He said to Geordie. “We’ve got work to do.”

Jamie let his three best men enter before him, then closed the door. 


	5. 4.5:  Present Day

##  **PRESENT DAY**

“Sorcha.” 

“Jamie.”

“_Ag iarraidh suidhe air mo aghaidh_?” His mouth twitched. 

“Wait. Say it again. Slowly.”

“_Ag iarraidh… suidhe air… mo aghaidh_?” He spaced his words evenly, keeping his grin hidden.

“Do you want to….” she closed her eyes in concentration. “One more time.”

“_Ag iarraidh suidhe air mo aghaidh_?”

Claire gasped, sat straight up in bed and turned to face Jamie, her curls riotous around her head. “Did you just say, ‘Do you want to sit on my face?” 

Jamie roared with laughter. Her face was a mix of shock in his suggestion, pride in her translation skills, with the slow dawning of consideration.

“You’re awful. It’s too bloody early in the morning for your sense of humour.” She flopped back in the bed. 

Jamie was still chuckling. “Aye, but ye love me.”

Claire rolled to her side, laid her hand over his chest. “You love me, too.” 

Jamie sighed. “I was going to run this morning.”

“You can still run. If you like.” She slowly rubbed her fingers through the burnished curls, trailed a finger down the darker line of his stomach.

He rolled to his side facing her. “There are other ways to get my heart rate up.”

Claire leaned forward, pressed her lips to his. She pushed on his shoulders, her body draping over him, her weight forcing him to lay back. She broke the kiss, kept her eyes locked on his. Pushed up onto her knees. Threw a leg over him. 

He pushed her slip of a nightgown up her thighs. He grabbed a handful of silky fabric in his right, a handful of bare arse in his left. 

She braced her arms against the headboard, stared into his cornflower blue eyes. Slowly lowered her body.

Gently, he licked her. The rough texture sent sensations coursing through her. Claire hissed in a breath. The tip of his tongue flicked at the nub. Her thighs contracted which lifted her up a little. 

“Easy, Sorcha.” Jamie wrapped a large hand around her leg, pressed on her to lower herself again. “Dinna run from me just yet.”

He licked her again, tongue flat. He lifted his chin, rubbed the sensitive skin between her legs with the scruff on his chin. She twitched. Moaned. When she looked at him again, he smiled. A smile that said, _trust me. I’ll take care of you._

He licked his lips. Bent to his task once again.

Claire closed her eyes and let Jamie work his magic. He took his time, used his mouth to make her cry out, blew gently to soothe. His thumb worked rhythmic circles, making her wet and slick, building sensations low in her belly. Claire surrendered herself to his kisses. The pressure of his thumb. The probing of his tongue. The feel of one strong hand on her hip, sliding over her backside.

She ran her fingers through his sleep tousled hair, pressed his head closer, tilted her hips _just so_ to give him more access, urging his mouth to move harder, faster. When he stopped she whimpered, opened her eyes, focused on Jamie’s mischievous smile. 

“_A Dhia_, you are beautiful,” he said softly.

“Jamie -“ she whispered. “ I do love you.”

“Oh, I love you, too, _mo ghràidh_. I do.” 

He fastened his mouth on the concentrated bundle of nerves. 

Claire’s breath came short. She felt everything in that moment. Heat. Pressure. Tension. 

Her toes curled. Her back arched. Her muscles began to pulse, contract, to pull up into her womb. Her skin flushed. Sweat beaded between her breasts. 

The waves built. Then crashed against the cry of his name on her lips.

And as he’d done from the beginning, Jamie was there to catch her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jamie walked into the station, his morning with Claire overshadowed by his reason for working on a Saturday. 

He’d found yet another pile of cigarettes. This one on the corner, west of their house. While it was down the street, it still afforded a clear view of their upstairs bedroom window and part of the back garden. On a hunch Jamie picked one up and put it in his pocket. 

He grabbed an evidence bag at the front desk, and deposited the cigarette butt in it. He left strict instructions for it to be taken to the lab immediately. The young uniformed officer was only too happy to have something to do.

“Mornin’, Geordie.”

“Chief Inspector.” 

Jamie smiled. He could always count on Geordie to be professional during work hours. 

“Any luck?” Jamie pulled over a chair from an empty desk. Weekend mornings were dead at the station. They were practically alone.

“You’re not gonna like it, Sir.” 

Jamie stared at the screen as Geordie pulled up the CCTV footage from around his house. 

Sure enough. There he was. He left the camera’s range two blocks from Jamie and Claire’s townhome only to be picked up by another camera around the corner. Every piece of video showed the same thing. Military bearing. Black boots. Cigarette perpetually in hand. 

And then he disappeared. 

Jamie knew exactly where he’d stopped. Waiting. Watching. Surveying.

And he was pretty sure he knew why.

“And the other stuff? Next of kin?”

“Again, you’re not gonna like it.” Geordie handed Jamie a file folder. “I’ve contacted the military police, told them he’s a suspect in an assault overseas, and asked for his dossier. I’ve yet to hear back.”

“Thanks,” he said to Geordie, eyes still on the screen. “Let me know when the RMP do contact ye. And when ye get the results from the evidence I submitted. Also - I want a car to drive by the house every hour or so, just to keep an eye on things until we can catch this guy doing something he shouldn’t.”

“Yes, Sir,” Geordie replied, picking up the phone to set Jamie’s plan in motion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She didn’t know how he got there. Didn’t know how it happened.

She was just going about her Saturday morning chores.

She walked into the kitchen and there he was. Sitting at the table. Smoking. Back door slightly ajar.

It was like seeing a ghost.

She stopped short. Cold sweat broke out down her spine. 

“Frank? What the devil are you doing?” The words were out before her rational mind stopped her. It wasn’t Frank. It couldn’t be.

_Frank was dead. Long dead._

“You’re not Frank.”

“No, Madam. I am not.” His voice was low. Controlled. Tight.

“Who the bloody hell are you? How did you get in here?” Claire’s heart beat faster. 

“I’m your cousin-in-law. Jonathan Wolverton Randall. Captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. But you can call me Jack,” he said, taking a long pull on his cigarette. 

“What do you want?”

He remained silent. Eyes narrowed against the smoke. 

She stared at him a moment longer. Alarm bells rang in her mind.

She spun quickly. Bolted down the hallway. Fumbled with the dead bolt.

She heard the scrape of the chair behind her. Heard him thunder across the hardwood floor towards her. He slammed her against the door, her forehead hitting hard. He whipped her around, grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. His forearm pressed just below her throat.

“Why wasn’t I told?” he spat out. 

She tried to raise a knee into his groin.

He side-stepped deftly, still gripping her hair and throat. “Madam, you will find my patience is not infinite.”

“Get off me, you bastard!” Before she could think better of it, she spit on him, full in the face. 

The man snapped. 

He stepped back, still holding her hair, and started walking toward the kitchen. She was knocked off her feet, certain that her hair was being ripped out at the roots.

He made his way down the hall dragging Claire behind him. He flung her across the floor. When she tried to get up he kicked her in the ribs. She flopped down, face first, panting heavily.

A moment later Claire tried to get up again. She’d almost made it until he punched her in the stomach so hard she lost her breath. She fell to the floor again, gasping for air. 

That’s when he grabbed the knife.

When she didn’t get up he knelt down to growl in her ear. Placed the knife flat against her throat. “What happened to him? Why didn’t you contact me?”

Claire tried to take a deep breath. All she could manage was a wheeze. She licked her lips, tried to speak. Her words came out raspy. Choppy. “I didn’t know… about you. Frank… he never spoke of you.”

Jack Randall went as still as a stone. _Frank never spoke of him? How was that possible? He wrote him. They exchanged letters. They were family for fuck’s sake. The only family he had. The only family ever to care. _

He was stunned. _She had to be lying._

He grabbed her hair again, pulled her head back until her neck was stretched so far she could hardly breathe. The knife was a cold brand against her skin.

“How the fuck did you not know about me? Frank wrote to me all the time!” He could feel the heat begin to rise from his gut. The anger was a volcano inside, waiting to erupt.

He let her go to run agitated fingers through his hair. 

“How did he die?” 

Claire measured the fact that he seemed to be lost in his thoughts. She eyed the slightly open back door. Eyed her distance from it. _Maybe if she kept him talking._

“Car accident,” she rasped. “Icy road.”

“Fuck,” Jack squeezed his eyes shut. _He had a plan dammit. Now what would he do? Getting help from Frank was the plan. Fuck the army. He didn’t have any skills. They tossed him out on his ass after years of working at what amounted to a fuckin’ petrol station pumping gas. And this bitch had never even heard of him? _

“How did you find me?” she asked, buying precious time.

“You had a very talkative neighbour back in Boston. Told me all about the beautiful, curly-haired young doctor, now a widow, who moved to London.” His grip on the knife seemed to slacken as he explained. “Quick google search proved useful. And hospital H.R. was very accommodating. Everyone loves to help out an ex-serviceman.”

Slowly, she got her legs under her. Set her hands. _Knife be damned_, she decided. She pushed off like a sprinter in the blocks, hoping she might make it through the back door. 

Instead, she felt the back of his hand across her face. 

Outside on the front walk Jamie had just pulled his key out of his pocket when he heard Claire scream.

He slowly unlocked the door. Opened it as carefully as he could, eyes scanning the inside, looking for movement in any of the side rooms. He stepped in cautiously, crept down the hallway on silent feet.

He wasn’t ready for what he saw. 


	6. 4.6:  "I'll Thank Ye To Take Yer Hands Off My Wife"

“I’ll thank ye to take yer hands off my wife.”

Jamie stayed as calm as he could be considering the scene before him. His palms started to tingle. His mind calculated. Exits. Attacks. Extractions.

“Your wife?” Randall jerked Claire’s hair again. “You’ve remarried? Already?”

“No!” she said quickly, looking at Jamie. Begging him with her eyes to be careful. “Engaged. Not married…not yet. And only…only recently engaged,” she stuttered.

Jamie’s eyes shifted from Claire, to Randall, to the knife, then back to Claire.

He missed nothing.

She was half sitting, half lying on the floor. No shoes. Her feet bare. Her hair was wrapped in his fist. Pain radiated from her eyes. Her forehead was sporting an egg sized bump. Her mouth was bleeding. No cuts on her lip that he could readily see so there had to be a nick on the inside of her mouth. The skin around her eye was darkening, starting to swell. She blinked often, which meant it was throbbing. Her left cheek was a stinging red, and in the center a ghostly imprint from the slap she’d recently received. She was panting heavily, possibly catching her breath between beatings.

_A Dhia_ she was brave.

And frightened. Nervous. With an underlying guilt in her eyes.

But he needed to detach. Needed to ignore the fear clawing at him, ignore the panic before it robbed him of rational thought.

He took a deep breath.

“Chief Inspector James Fraser,” he said evenly, placing a hand on his chest by way of introduction. His left hand was open, palm toward the man, fingers spread wide. His arm was held away from his side, hopefully indicating no weapon. That he wasn’t a threat.

The man opened his mouth to speak. But Jamie beat him to it.

“I ken who ye are,” Jamie said quickly. He kept his eyes on Jack’s. His fingers tapped against his chest as he thought what to do. How to control this situation. “Ye’re Jonathan Wolverton Randall. RAF 20 years. Recently retired. Yer next of kin was Frank Wolverton Randall.”

_Wolverton_, Jamie thought. _Fitting name for two men who acted like animals._

“How do you know that?”

_Out of range for a quick take down. Need to get closer._

“Boston PD called. Seems ye left quite an impression during yer brief visit.”

Jack chuckled. “Right. The whore. In my defense, I said I wasn’t looking for company.”

Jamie shuffled forward a step and a half. Shot a glance toward Claire. “Why don’t ye let her go? Put the knife down. We can talk.”

Jack smiled sadly. “I would. Except she owes me.”

“I told you it was an accident and that –“ she yelped in pain as he yanked her hair again, forcing her neck backwards. He placed the tip of the knife on the throbbing pulse just under her chin.

Jack crouched down by Claire’s ear, spoke furiously. “Frank was my last chance. My _only _chance. I’ve been in the military my whole life, it’s all I know. So how am I supposed to get a job, eh? Who’s going to give me a leg up? Where am I supposed to stay? How _the fuck _am I supposed to live like a civilian, get a decent job when my last post was as a glorified pump boy at what amounted to a petrol station?” He slid the flat of the blade across her throat, never letting go of his grip on her hair. "Frank was supposed to be in America. I was counting on him to help me. And now he’s gone, and you’re here fucking another man. So, who’s going to fix this for me, eh?”

As if he’d just been pulled into the present, Jack blinked his eyes several times, then shifted his body so he was looking Claire in the eyes. The knife pricked a little harder. “How _did_ you hook up with this guy so fast?”

Jamie stepped closer still.

“Let her go,” he said softly. “It no’ her fault. T’was mine. It’s me ye want to hurt. Not her.”

The infinitesimal shift of Jack’s head told Jamie he was listening.

“She didna want to be with me. She was still hung up on Frank when I met her. I kept tellin’ her he was a loser.”

“Jamie –“ Claire started.

“_Bi sàmhach_.”

_Be quiet_. He said it so fast and so low that it didn’t sound like actual words to an untrained ear. 

Jack cocked his head to the side. “Did you know Frank?”

“No,” Jamie shook his head. “Didna matter, ken? I wanted his wife. So, I took her.”

His words had their intended effect. Jack Randall released his grip, and Claire dropped to the floor. She quickly pushed herself away. Watched Jack Randall spring to his feet, agile as a cat. Watched Jamie shift his weight onto the balls of his feet.

“He wasn’t a loser,” Jack said, voice hard. “He was family. Only one in my family to give a shit.”

Jack stepped forward, knife in his grip. He brought his face within inches of Jamie’s, the steel edge resting against Jamie’s cheekbone. “How dare you speak of my cousin like that.”

Before Jamie realized what was happening, Jack’s head came down on his with a force that caused him to crumple in a heap, seeing stars.

“Jamie!” Claire screamed, crawling across the floor toward him. The doctor in her told her he was just knocked out. The lover in her was shrouded in fear. 

Jack watched her move toward Jamie. Waited for her to get close. Then, kicked her in the stomach.

Her mouth worked for breath, opened and closed without gathering air. She felt as if she were going to faint until her airway finally opened up enough to let in some oxygen. She and Jamie were both on the floor.

Both fighting against their pain. 

She heard him speak. 

“Sorcha.” He licked his lips. Spoke slowly. “_Falbh. Lorg Iain_.”

“What the fuck?” Jack stepped over Claire. Stood over Jamie. Reached down and pinched his cheeks together in an agonizing grip. The knife dangled dangerously close to his eye. “What the fuck did he say?”

“I …. I don’t know,” Claire stammered. “He’s in pain. He’s not making sense.” 

_A lie. A lie to keep him safe_. She gave Jamie a quick nod. _I understand_.

Jack let him go. Turned on Claire.

He looked at her for a long moment, then put his hand around her throat. Pointed the tip of his blade into her soft breast.

Jamie needed to shift Jack Randall’s attention. Fast. 

“Ye’re not special,” he sneered.

“What did you say?” Jack said, softly. The knife stayed where it was.

“Ye wander through life, thinkin’ it owes ye somethin’, wantin’ the easy way and when it doesna go to plan, ye throw a temper tantrum like a child.” Jamie shook his head. “Tough guy, aren’t ye? Beatin’ up a woman.”

“Who cares about an empty-headed trollop,” Jack shrugged.

“Ye’re a coward. The army couldna wait to be rid of ye. And Frank? He was liar, _and_ a coward.”

Jack pushed the tip in ever so slightly. A small rosy circle started to bloom on Claire’s tee shirt.

Jamie avoided looking at Claire. Couldn’t look, not if he wanted to appear in control. Her fear, her pain would undo him.

“Ye werena as important to Frank as ye thought, were ye? His widow doesna ken who ye are. Clearly Frank didna think much of ye, to never mention ye at home.” 

_Almost there_, Jamie thought, as he watched the muscle work in Randall’s jaw, watched him try to control his temper. The blade eased off as Jack turned to face the taunts thrown at him.

“Ye know,” Jamie laughed, as if he’d just thought of something amusing. “I bet it wasna even Frank writing to ye! I’ll bet it was his secretary.” Jamie adopted a posh British accent. “Ms. Jones, do pick up my dry cleaning, won’t you? And write another letter to my cousin, what’s his name?”

“Shut. Your. Mouth.”

“Or what?” Jamie mocked. “Whatever ye do isna going to change that fact that ye’re a nobody. And that nobody cares if ye live or die.“

“Frank cared!” Jack raged, his limbs shaking with anger.

“No, mate,” Jamie ridiculed, “He didn’t. He didna give a shit.”

Jack took a deep, shuddering breath, “I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Fraser. I warned you. I warned you to shut your mouth. Now, I’ll shut it for you.”

Randall looked down at Claire. “Say goodbye to your boyfriend, sweetheart.” He grabbed Claire by the arm. Dragged her to the back door.

“Wait!” she cried. “No!” Claire shifted her weight suddenly, knocked Randall off balance so that his grip slipped. She broke free, and lunged toward Jamie. “I can’t leave you!”

“Yes, ye will. Do as I say. I love you, _mo nighean donn_.” Jamie kissed her quick, then whispered in her ear, “_Tha e den bheachd gu bheil thu gun fheum. Tha fios agam nach eil thu._”

He pulled back to look at her, praying she’d understood. 

And then she was gone.

Jack pulled Claire away, forced her outside. He went to close the door, but made the mistake of reaching toward her one last time to shove her farther away.

Claire saw her moment.

She grabbed his hand. Held his fingers in a vise grip. Stared into his dark eyes and saw it all. Saw every evil thought, every wicked action. She saw his lies. His deceptions. His sick and twisted desires. 

And she saw his end.

Like his cousin before him, she saw his death.

Jack tried to break the grip. Twisted his arm sharply to no avail. She held on, the bones in his hand starting to ache. She was much stronger than she seemed.

He looked at her. And was frozen to his soul.

“You were never much to anyone, were you?” she said, low and intense, her eyes glowing like fire. “Your parents wouldn’t let you have a pet after they caught you hurting the neighbour’s dog. No friends growing up. When your brother died you didn’t show signs of any sorrow. No one trusted you because of your pathological lies.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed at first, then widened as Claire revealed truths about him. 

“I hope you have your affairs in order, Captain,” she spat out, her voice low. The inflection precise. “Because you’re running out of time.”

Jack reared back.

“Get off me, you bitch,” Randall growled.

“Not bitch. Witch. And I curse you,” Claire said, straightening herself so she could look the wiry man in the eye. She grabbed his wrist with her other hand, felt his pulse beat double time. “I curse you with knowledge, Jack Randall. I give you the hour of your death.” She paused. A slight smile twitched at her lips. 

“Jonathan Wolverton Randall, born September 3, 1975. Dies…” She placed her mouth next to his ear and whispered the time that she saw so clearly.

Claire let go abruptly. Swooned a bit on her feet.

When she could focus again the door had been shut firmly in her face.

She turned and ran as fast as she could in her bare feet. It was cold without a coat. She had no purse, no phone. But she knew what she had to do.

_Go. Find John_.

And Jamie’s last words to her. _He thinks you are helpless. I know you are not._

When she finally walked into New Scotland Yard she was shivering. Her feet were bright red. Teeth chattering. Hair tangled. Eyes red-rimmed. Face bruised. 

She stood before the front desk, hugging herself, saying the same thing over and over.

“John Grey. John Grey. I need Chief Inspector John Grey.”


	7. 4.7:  The Search

_He was falling in and out of consciousness. His head was throbbing, enough to make him want to vomit. By the smell in the room, he already had. _

_He registered another scent._

_Blood. _

_His blood. _

_His thigh was numb where it had been slashed, covered in congealed red matter, his trousers stuck to his skin. His dislocated shoulder was on fire from being dragged, belt tied around his wrists. He tried to take a breath but the pain was like lightning striking his side, stealing the oxygen from his lungs._

_He struggled to stay awake before the world went dark again._

“You’re sure?” John Grey listened for a moment, then slammed down the phone. “Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?” She was wrapped in a police-issue coat. Someone rustled up socks and too-big boots for her feet. Her teeth had finally stopped chattering. 

“House is empty. He’s not there,” John said over his shoulder as he strode out of Jamie’s office at Snow Hill Station. He shouted names, assembling a team.

Claire looked down at the steaming, hot cup of coffee someone had shoved at her. Warmth was finally coming back into her hands.

Her hands. 

Her hands were conduits. 

They had been used for healing once. Now, they spoke for the dead. And the living. Her hands had discovered lies and half truths. They’d revealed sins and sinners. Sadness. Pain. Loneliness.

Her hands.

They’d told her things she didn’t want to know. Things she didn’t ask for. Her hands had never lied to her, never betrayed her. Not in life. Not in death. And now, not in love. 

They couldn’t show her Jamie. 

That had happened once before. A long time ago. With Frank.

When she was in love with Frank, happy and blissfully unaware of who he really was, she could touch him and “see” nothing.

And then, one day, it changed. Doubt had crept into her relationship. And so it began. 

Glimpses. Flashes. Vignettes. 

Other women’s faces. Places he said he was, when he obviously wasn’t. The visions got longer. Clearer. More detailed. She would drive by a hotel and wonder why it looked familiar, then remember where she’d seen it. 

Months ago she could see a good future, a happy future with Jamie, but there were shadows. Shimmers. Hints. 

Then, Geneva. 

But no longer. 

Now the curtain was drawn. The play ended. It was just her, him and a love deeper than she could have imagined, than she’d ever experienced. A love so profound not even her gift could penetrate it. Couldn’t taint it.

And right at this moment she wished that weren’t true. Because when he kissed her goodbye in their kitchen that had become their Hell, she might have seen where he was right now. Could have seen what was happening. 

Her gift was a blessing and a curse. And right now, she was cursed by her blessing. She couldn’t do a damn thing to help the man she loved.

_“So.” Jamie spit out the blood that was filling his mouth. “How did ye manage to avoid the court martials over the years? Or the Military Corrective Centre?”_

_Jack laughed. “The petition of complaints against me? Everyone has something they keep hidden, don’t they? I’m good at finding out secrets. Like which Officers like little boys. Which ones have a taste for teenage girls. Some were fond of the Devil’s Candy,” he sniffed, tapping his nose. “Others preferred pills. Bastards, all of them, always trying to blacken my character. Nobody’s perfect, eh? So when push came to shove, I would tell my superiors what I knew. And voilà! Charges dropped.”_

_“You’re running out of time,” Jamie rasped. _

_Jack froze. Those words again. _

_Damn these two. He would get to the bottom of this game they were playing._

_“Explain to me,” Jack said, sliding over a chair to sit in front of Jamie. “Why you would do this? Why take her place?”_

_“Because she didna deserve yer beating. She’s innocent in whatever crime ye think she’s committed.” _

_“Innocent?” Jack laughed. “Oh no, not innocent.” He checked his watch. “Not two hours ago she was predicting when I would die. She actually said she was a witch. Now, I ask you,” Jack said, leaning closer to Jamie’s face, “If she can predict my death, did she predict Frank’s? Hmm? Did she curse him, too?”_

_Jamie didn’t move a muscle. He was grateful for the swollen face that wouldn’t reveal a reaction. Poor Randall. He had no idea. Randall thought Claire was bluffing. He thought he could withstand this storm. Except Claire was the storm. She’d clearly brought doubts and dark thoughts into Jack’s mind like thunderclouds on the edge of the horizon._

_“And if she cursed Frank, did she curse you, too?” he continued. “Does she know when you will die?” Jack settled back in his chair giving Jamie some space. “I know when you will die.”_

_Randall crossed his arms. “You’re an officer of the law. I respect that. Let me give you the death you deserve. Clean. Honourable. Your choice. Single gunshot to the head, execution style? Or, I could simply slit your throat from behind. It’s dramatic, but messy,” he shrugged, “The choice is yours.” _

_“How will I ever choose?” Jamie mocked. _

_Jack nodded. He’d let the man have his sarcasm. It meant nothing to him. He would get what he wanted before he killed this officer. “I want you to admit that you were wrong. That I mattered. That I wasn’t nothing to Frank. That we were family.” Jack’s voice was low and controlled. _

_“Ye ken ye weren’t.”_

_Randall stood slowly, anger seething through every pore. _

_Jamie watched through blurry eyes as Jack unbuckled his belt. Watched it slide through the loops of his army issue fatigues. He shivered when Jack moved behind him, when he felt his shirt rip up the back._

_He waited for it. Knew it was coming. Felt the first sting of the metal prong rake across his shoulders. _

She looked up as Jamie’s trusted friends entered his office. Chief Inspector Grey handed D.C. Mohr a dossier to share with the group, picture included. “His name is Jonathan Randall. He’s retired military with a rather lengthy history of bad behaviour. Seems he’s narrowly missed getting charged for various infractions.”

The men flipped through the file, pulled out what they needed. 

“Find out how he got away from the house. Find out where he’s staying. And for fuck’s sake let’s find out where he’s taken Jamie.”

Everyone jumped into action. In minutes D.C. Mohr had the make, model and plate of Randall’s rental car. Rupert left the office to get a team of people to help him call hotels. Detective Sergeant Geordie MacKenzie was checking the CCTV around Claire’s place.

Claire could do nothing but sit. Silent. Helpless. Alone.

“Got him,” Geordie said. 

She jumped up from her chair to look. Jack’s rental car was pulling out from the alley behind her house. Jamie wasn’t visible in the front seat. “He’s either in the back, or the boot.” Geordie mumbled. “My guess is Jamie’s unconscious. Can’t see him leaving willingly.”

“Randall had a knife.” Her voice sounded distant, even to her.

She watched as Geordie worked his magic, flipped through CCTV footage like the cyber crimes expert he was. The car eventually disappeared into an industrial area not that far from Claire’s house. 

“There’s a few options here,” Angus said. “There’s a couple of empty buildings, but there’s also some shitty hotels that wouldna investigate any disturbances, if ye ken my meanin’.”

“Needle in a fucking haystack,” John mumbled. “Rupert. Call those hotels. See if a Jonathan Randall is booked in there.”

“Too bad you don’t have one of those apps that let’s you share your location,” Rupert said as he walked away.

“What do you mean?” Claire looked up at him curiously, not quite understanding.

Rupert stopped at the door of the office and turned around. “Like…what’s that thing called?” He snapped his fingers, thinking. “Snapface! No..snap…”

“Snapchat, ye eijit” Angus said.

“Right!” Geordie confirmed. He turned his attention to Claire. “You can see a person’s location on that, if they allow it.” 

“No, we don’t.” Claire could barely hear for the roaring in her ears. _Imagine,_ she thought. _Imagine a stupid app being able to save Jamie’s life. Imagine not having that stupid app that could save Jamie’s life._

They were silent for a moment, each lost in thought. 

Abruptly, Claire sat up straight. Faced Geordie. “Geneva,” she whispered.

Geordie reacted immediately. “Claire, you bloody genius!” 

He stood up quickly, grabbed the phone again, and dialled out. “Chief Inspector John Grey for Deputy Commissioner Dunsany, please,” he said, glancing at John with a triumphant look in his eye. “It’s urgent.” He placed his hand over the receiver, spoke rapidly to John outlining what he needed, then passed him the phone.

The conversation was short and succinct. John explained the situation, what he wanted. The Deputy Commissioner didn’t hesitate to grant permission.

_Jamie was right. I’m not helpless, _Claire thought. 

At Rupert’s mention of location sharing, Claire was reminded of the spyware Geordie had discovered on Jamie’s phone. Spyware Geneva Dunsany had downloaded. 

Her phone was currently sitting in a property room at New Scotland Yard. Nothing was wiped from it. And Geordie couldn’t remember removing the spyware from Jamie’s phone after the case was wrapped. It just never crossed his mind. 

With any luck, it was still there. With any luck they could use Geneva’s phone to pinpoint Jamie’s location. With any luck Jamie had his phone with him. 

With any luck. 

_The pain was nothing. _

_Nothing._

_He’d dealt with pain before. _

_He’d been beaten up. Broken his nose, and the odd bone. Pain was familiar._

_He’d been shot, once. The first time, there was nothing but the initial shock. The searing heat radiating from the hole in his shoulder into his muscles, organs, brain. Rendering him helpless. _

_Then, the training kicked in. He’d used his mind to block the pain, to take himself out of the situation and into survival mode. _

_He did the same now as Randall’s anger turned into torture. _

_Jamie called Claire up in his mind as easily as a child drawing a picture of the sun._

Geordie plugged the phone in, waited for it to charge enough to turn it on. His hands shook as he picked it up, looked for what he needed. Five minutes later they all gasped as a little red dot showed up on a map. 

Jamie.

Claire let the tears fall silently, gripped Geordie’s shoulder. He looked up at her, smiling. “We got him, Claire. Don’t worry.”

“Call the SCO19,” John said. “We’re going to need them going in.”

Angus stood up to call. “I’ve got just the guy,” he said. “Head of a unit. Crack shot. Serious fellow.”

An hour later, Angus tried to drop Claire off at home. She wouldn’t get out of the car. He cajoled, begged, threatened, pleaded, bribed. Even went so far as to arrest her and read her her rights. She wouldn’t budge. 

Which is how she ended up at the scene. 

“Just stay in the fucking car,” Angus snapped as he got out.

“Fuck that,” Claire mumbled, and climbed out the other side. 

She walked up on the scene too terrified to do more than stand silently and watch. 

“Confirm you are in position,” John Grey barked into the radio in his hand.

“In position,” the answer crackled back.

John looked over at Deputy Commissioner Dunsany. The older man nodded. 

“Critical shot authorized,” John Grey said.

“Received.” 

Silence stretched onward. 

“Report,” John ordered.

“I have no clear shot of the subject.” 

_Sorcha._

_Light._

_He started first with her smile, then conjured the stray curls that blew across her face. Not many, not enough to obscure that smile. He brought her eyes to the surface of his mind. Those strange amber eyes that changed colour from whisky to gold depending on her mood. He let his mind recall the changes. When she was teasing, when she was aroused, when she was angry. Every mood a different shade._

_The next blow came._

_The edges of pain clawed at his mind, and he registered the warmth of his blood as it flowed over his back._

_He grit his teeth. Tensed his jaw. Commanded himself to bring her back._

_He breathed deeply. Evenly. He could smell her perfume. The floral scent of her shampoo. The tangy fragrance of her body lotion._

“Do not shoot one of our own,” John spoke into the radio. “Repeat, do not shoot one of our own.”

Claire’s heart started to race. 

Moments passed. Stretched into minutes. 

“Do you have a clean shot of the subject?” John asked.

“Negative,” came the response.

_Sorcha._

_Her body now, her skin pale in the bedroom. Luminescent. Unmarked. _

_In his mind her rolled her over and focused on the straight line of her spine. The way her waist dipped in before her hips flared out. Her thighs tapering to her calves, the long lean lines of her._

_He was there, with her, in her, surrounded by her. _

_And there was no more pain. _

_His body was being jostled. Struck. Torn. _

_He felt nothing. _

_He was reliving every moment of his life with her. Transcended himself to a place that his attacker could not reach. _

_And he stayed there. He would stay there as long as it took. Because if he died today, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. Because if he died he would have died with Claire Beauchamp on his mind, and in his heart. Whether it be today, or fifty years from now, he would die the same way. _

_With Claire._

_Always, Claire._

“AFO Fitzgibbons, do you have a clear shot of the subject?”

“Negative. Wait –“ The wizened older man sighted his SIG Sauer 716DMR on the suspect’s head. He needed him to move just a little to the left. 

“Officer –“

“Hold yer whist,” Fitzgibbons muttered into the microphone. “I’ve got him. I just need him to take one step… Affirmative.”

“Take the shot,” John ordered.

The sound of broken glass hitting the pavement was the only indication that a shot had been fired. 

“Subject has been neutralized. I repeat, subject has been neutralized.”

Claire checked her phone. 

7:54 p.m. 

Exactly.

She was never wrong. 

Never.


	8. 4.8:  The Hospital

Claire lay on her side, the bed she’d procured in direct defiance of hospital policy was pushed up as close to Jamie’s as possible. She watched him sleep. Watched the slow drip of the pain medication as it wound its way through the clear tube into his arm. She listened to him breathe, shallow inhalations so as not to aggravate his broken ribs. 

Once in a while she would sneak two fingers across the narrow canyon between them to lightly touch the pulse at the base of his neck. Strong. Steady. 

Alive.

Reassurances made, she retracted her touch, curled her hand back under her chin, and continued the vigil. 

She lay on her side long into the night. Watched him until her eyes burned, until she struggled to keep them open. 

He wasn’t sure what woke him. The beeping, or the pain. Both were consistent, continuous. A metronome of his well-being.

Jamie opened his swollen eyes to the sight of warm topaz. 

Claire. 

One eye was still slightly swollen, but the bump on her forehead had lessened. The bruise on her cheekbone was a deep purple. Aside from that she was whole. 

Whole. Alive. Unbroken.

She was there. Beside him. Staring at him. Eyes filled with concern, watching him for signs of discomfort.

He tried to look around, immediately regretted it.

“Is it too much?” she asked, softly. 

_Too much? Yes, it was too much. Every day with this woman was too much. Too much happiness. Too much love. Too much sex. Too much worry. Too much desire. Too much fear. Too much hope. _

She filled his heart with so much more than what he ever felt he would get from life. She _was_ his life. 

“Jamie. Does it hurt?” 

“Aye. A bit.” The softness in her voice demanded his honesty.

“You need a bolus. Let me get a nurse.” Claire made to rise from the bed. 

“Dinna fash, Claire. I can manage,” he muttered.

She ignored him. Like she did when he told her to leave the crime scene. Like she did when he told her to leave him alone in the emergency room. Like she did when he told her to leave his hospital room.

The nurse bustled in, checked his chart. She took his vitals, asked him how he was feeling, to rate his pain. She made some adjustments, and left.

Claire never touched him once.

“Better?” She climbed back up onto her hospital bed.

“Yes. Thank ye.” And yet, he wasn’t better. Would never be better. 

He was in love with a woman who could never touch him again.

He’d made the decision in the ambulance. He knew Claire. Knew her better than she knew herself. If she got even a tiny glimpse into what he suffered at Randall’s hands she would blame herself. She would curl up, close herself off, rebuild that wall that he had slowly, patiently, torn down brick by self-imposed brick. She would carry the guilt of this attack. 

The quiet of the night shift descended. Noises reduced. Hospital corridors fell silent. Like a confessional, the silence demanded reflection. A meditation.

He had to let her go. Had to live without his heart. He would die alone before he would let Claire suffer. Before he would let her see what had happened to him. 

“Claire,” he started. His throat was dry. Aching. Tight. “Claire, I need ye to go home.”

In answer she reached down, pulled the blanket up tighter around her shoulders, settled into her favourite sleeping position with her hand curled under her chin. Then, closed her eyes.

His dreams woke her. Dreams that had him flailing, fighting the ghost of his foe. Dreams where he shouted _No!_ and sometimes, _Claire!_

Startled awake she went for the nurse, begged for another shot of pain medication to keep him sedated so his erratic movements wouldn’t reopen the lash cuts on his back. To keep him peaceful. Rested. Healing.

Only when he was oblivious would she touch him. Touch the split skin. Apply the salve to his wounds. Change the bandages around his raw skinned wrists. Check that the stitches on his thigh were dry, not infected. Only then would she take a warm cloth, wipe the sweat that beaded on his forehead during his nightmares. Use a brush to gently comb his curls. 

She would place her lips, feather-light, against his swollen shoulder. Across his battered knuckles. So gently against the gashed lower lip. _Kiss and make it better,_ as the saying went. If only it were that easy. 

When he awoke again in the middle of the night, she was there. Her eyes like caramel. Soft. Sweet. He could see her sadness, her fear behind the irises. 

And her questions. 

“Dinna cry, Sorcha,” Jamie’s tongue darted out to wet his dry lips. “I can bear pain myself. But I canna bear yours. That would take more strength than I have.”

She picked up the water glass. Placed the straw between his lips. He sipped lightly. 

“What –“ her throat closed on unspoken words. Words she was unable to say for the tears, and pain that stole them. 

She swallowed hard. Tried again. “What did Randall do to you?”

He stared at her. His blue eyes blinking furiously. Jamie shook his head. “I dinna want to talk about it.”

She reached a hand, tenderly, toward his jaw. Just to reassure herself that he was there, awake and warm beneath her touch. He tensed, then drew away as her hand came near. She stretched further, her need to connect with him great, traced a short line on his skin with the tip of her middle finger, a delicate touch as light as gossamer. He flinched away. Hissed in a breath as the movement send shards of pain across his back.

She looked at him, confused. “Jamie?”

“I keep tellin’ ye, Claire, but ye willna listen. I want ye to go. I dinna want ye here.” He knew his tone was hard. His words, cutting.

Her touch would ruin his resolve. 

He had only one option.

Break it off. End it. Send her away. 

““Don’t ye see? I cannot be yer husband any longer. I’ll not have ye touch me, and see what happened. I canna be married to someone … someone like you.”

Claire sat hard on the edge of her bed. She stared at Jamie, eyes wide. If he’d meant to hurt her, he’d succeeded.

She took a deep breath. Then, another.

Tears threatened. Her heart raced. Panic rose. 

There was a time when Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall would have sat back and decided that this … this goodbye … was what she deserved. 

But not now. 

No. _Hell no_.

_Bloody stubborn Scot_. 

“Someone like me?” she pulled herself back onto her cot. “Never bothered you before. Never bothered you when you had cases to solve. Or when you wanted me to admit we had a future. To admit that I saw us together.” 

She grabbed the blanket, began to arrange it around her legs. “I accused you once of treating me like a Magic Eight Ball. And now, here you are, basically saying you can’t handle my…what did you call it once? My gift?” 

She started to shake, her anger was that alive. Her fingers wouldn’t work, their trembling made it difficult to straighten the fabric.

She turned to him, the extent of her shame pulling the words from her soul. “You’re too late. I already feel guilty. I should have touched Randall when I had the chance, when he first came into the house. I should have offered him my hand, and opened myself to see what was coming. I could have lied, told him Frank was his biggest fan, shared the things I saw as if Frank had spoken of him. If only I’d been smart enough to touch him. But I ran. I got scared, and I ran.” 

“It’s no’ yer fault,” Jamie said softly. “Even if ye’d done that it might have backfired. What if ye’d shared something he’d never told Frank? Then he’d want to know how ye kent it, and that would have been trickier to explain.”

“Is this you trying to carry my pain? Thought you couldn’t bear it?” She glared at him. She looked like a tiger who’d cornered her prey. “Which is it, Jamie?”

“Stop, Claire.” His voice was low, firm. But not cold. 

“You’ve never been the cause of my pain, Jamie. You’ve been the cause of my redemption. You have dragged me, against my will, back into life.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “There was a time when I decided to live my life alone. Just me, my work, and my cat. You’ve made me love you, James Fraser, and I’m not letting you go. I’m not. I need you too much. I want you too much.” 

She swiped at the lone tear that fell on her cheek. “I love you too much.”

As his emotions ran high, Jamie’s breath came fast. He clamped his trembling lips tightly together. Focused on a spot above Claire’s head. _Too much. Still too much. Too much to hear that she loved him. Christ, she loved him!_

“And you love me, too,” she stated, as if she had read his mind. 

She felt her chin quiver. Could barely see for the tears that filled her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose, holding them back. She was damn close to breaking. She grabbed her curls. Began to gather them into a topknot.

“When I kissed you,” she whispered, “right before I left, I saw nothing. Nothing. Not one flicker of anything.” She watched as his features changed. His cat-like eyes got a little wider, his mouth slackened just a bit, his brow unfurrowed. 

“I cannot see when I am blinded by love.” 

She laid down, then. Rolled onto her left side, eyes on him, her hand curled under her chin, just as she had for the past few hours while monitoring him. 

Both of them took the time to gather their feelings tight around them. Claire dug deep inside for her stubbornness, and the cool detachment that made her an excellent doctor. Jamie clothed himself in steely resolve, called up the cool detachment that made him one of the best officers to ever work at New Scotland Yard. 

Stubbornness, like a thread of spiders’ silk, curling in on itself, tightly woven, trapped them within it. 

And then Claire spoke. 

“What do you think I do when you’re sleeping?” she whispered softly into the darkness. She reached a hand between them. Jamie didn’t move but she could see him tense up, ready to shift if she came too close. 

She held his gaze in the dim light, let her fingers hover over the pulse point on his neck. 

“I touch you here, every half hour. Take your pulse. I’m the one who’s changed your bandages. Put the salve on your back. Washed you. No one else. Just me.”

She let that sink in for a moment. 

Claire’s eyes travelled over Jamie’s face. She could see the burst blood vessels in his eye. Could see the swirl of colours on his bruised face. 

Could see the evidence of his sacrifice. 

She would not let that sway her. Would not let her guilt win.

“Do you not want me anymore?” she asked, plainly.

He remained silent. 

“Then, go ahead and find another woman.” She choked the words out. _Damn him. _

“You once told me that you’d never had much success with women because of your job. If you think you can find someone more perfect for you, then find her. Find someone who satisfies you like I do. That wants you more than I do. That loves you more than I do.”

She watched his jaw clench. Watched the tiny muscle pulse with frustration. 

“You belong to no one else but me, and I belong to you. And nothing will ever change that.” She rolled over, turned her back to him. She brought the blanket up around her ears, effectively hiding herself from him.

He was immobile. Couldn’t find the breath to call her name.

She had touched him. She had touched him, and was still here.

His mind whirled with the truth of it. Eventually, pain medication claimed him, claimed his chaotic thoughts, and he drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, her bed was empty. It took him a moment to notice the ring. 

Her engagement ring lay on her pillow. 

It was then that Jamie did something he hadn’t done since he was a child.

He fell completely, and utterly apart.


	9. 4.9:  Case Closed

The car rolled to a stop in front of the townhome.

Jamie scanned the sidewalk before he realized he didn’t need to anymore. 

_He’s dead. You saw him. He’s gone. _

He closed his eyes, let out a slow breath, released the tension he felt at facing this place and what had happened since he’d been here. 

Ghosts. 

They are terrible things.

“Jamie? Are you all right?” John asked.

“Aye,” Jamie answered softly, still looking up at the house. He dropped his head, then turned to his friend. “Thank ye for bringing me home. Here,” he corrected. “Bringing me here.”

John gave him a half-smile, shrugged and opened his car door.

When the doctor made his rounds at 6:00 that morning Jamie had pressed him to sign his release right then and there. He wanted to be home before Claire left for work. 

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, pulled the car handle. John opened the door wider, extended a hand. Jamie gladly took it. He stood carefully. His ribs were still tender, but his black eye had improved. The stitches in his thigh were itchy, as were the lashes on his back. A sign of healing, the nurse had said. 

Outward healing, yes. 

His internal wound was unbearable. That one was still open and weeping. He ran a sweaty hand down the side of his pants, felt the ring in his front pocket. 

He’d spent five long days in the hospital after she left. Yet, every once in a while he would wake to detect the faint scent of her body lotion. Whether it was real or a manifestation of his desire, he couldn’t be sure.

The ghost of her hovered over him while he healed, fractured the shell he’d tried to build around him. To shut Claire out meant that he didn’t trust her. Didn’t trust that whatever she saw, she could work through. By her own admission, she’d touched him. Whether she saw the ugly truth of his torture, or not, shouldn’t have mattered. She was still there. Guilt didn’t keep her, nor did it drive her away. He did that. All on his own. 

John dropped his bag inside the front door. “Do you need me to stay for a bit?”

“No, thank ye, for everything,” Jamie said, offering his friend a handshake. _ For my life _was the unspoken sentiment. He gripped John’s hand tightly, poured his gratitude into the touch.

“You’d do the same for me,” John said, understanding him. He shut the door quietly behind him. 

Jamie turned, took a determined breath, walked down the hallway to the kitchen. He needed to face the scene of the crime. The battlefield. It was clean now. No trace of anything sinister. Yet, this was the room where fear had gripped him like a cancer, eating away at his nicely ordered life. He never wanted to see Claire that frightened, that vulnerable ever again. 

He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. 

She was asleep on her side of the bed. His side was still tucked in neatly. His pillow propped against the headboard, ready and waiting. Waiting for him to come to bed, to turn down his sheets, to lay where he’d lain countless times before. 

Her hair trailed across the blue linens, one corkscrew tendril lay across her cheek. Her long lashes were dark against her pale skin. Her mouth was slightly parted, her breaths deep and even. 

One arm was stretched out to rest on his empty space.

At his arrival, Adso stirred. The Grey lifted his head and mewed loudly. He stretched lazily, then padded his way across the mattress toward Jamie, who knelt carefully by the bed, adjusting his legs so as not to pull the stitches in his thigh. The cat lifted his head to rub against the underside of Jamie’s jaw.

“Aye, buddy. Hello. Did ye miss me, then? Hm?” He closed his eyes, dipped his head to rub his face against Adso’s ears. He ran a hand down its back. The feline’s deep purr was pure balm to his soul. 

It was then that he noticed the hand. Slowly, sliding toward him. Her fingers splayed, silently asking for his touch. 

Jamie lifted his head to see Claire. Clear. Awake. Wary.

Did he dare? 

He placed his hand on the bed, spread his fingers wide and slid them toward hers. The tip of his middle finger touched the tip of hers. Their hands lay like that for a moment with just the tiniest of connections. Then, he lifted his fingers, interlaced them between hers, and pushed them together. He watched her eyes for the tells. But nothing happened. No lids widened before narrowing to focus on whatever visions came to her. None of the shifting back and forth of her eyes as she registered all that she was seeing. No subtle roll of her eyes that indicated she was coming out of it. None of that happened. None of it. 

He sighed in relief.

“You’re home.” Her sleep voice was low and sexy.

“I’m here.” Home had yet to be decided.

“Lay down,” she said, withdrawing her hand to pull back the duvet.

“Christ, Claire, I smell like… hospital.” He was going to say ‘death’ but he caught himself.

“All right,” she said with authority. “Let’s get you washed.” She pushed off the covers and climbed out of bed. His eyes took in her bare legs, the cheeks of her arse where her panties had ridden up, the curve of her breast under the tee shirt.

He was hard in an instant.

“I can shower myself, Claire,” he started to say, rising from where he knelt, but she cut him off.

“No. You can’t. Stitches can’t get wet. You need a sponge bath.” She rummaged through the linen closet for a clean cloth, and some towels. “Get undressed. I’ll run you a bath.”

She didn’t wait for him to agree. Seconds later he heard the water thundering into the tub. He shook his head. _Best do as I’m told_, he thought, shucking his trousers.

He walked into the bathroom without looking at Claire. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to see her face when she saw his wounds, the scabs on his back, the flaking skin, the blood pebbling just under the skin. Didn’t want to see disgust. Or pity.

James Fraser wasn’t a vain man. At least, he wasn’t until he met Claire. She brought out feelings in him he didn’t know existed. He discovered that he liked how small she seemed next to him. How he could cover her with his body, towered over her in height. He felt a soul deep pleasure when she ran her hands over him. Enjoyed the way her eyes went half-mast when she watched him undress, how she would suck in her lower lip, teeth biting down gently. His body turned her on, and he knew it. It was a heady feeling. Powerful, but not in a controlling way. In her arms he felt like he was on top of the world. 

But how could she be attracted to him now? His back was a mess. He’d have scars. Lots of red, raised scars. Maybe he was weak, maybe he was shallow, but by God, he still wanted her to find his body as tempting as hers was to him. He craved that look in her eyes that made him feel like a Celtic god. 

He stepped into the tub, and sat down. The water was warm. Soothing. A soft scent wafted up from the waves he’d made. 

“Weel, at least my arsehole will get clean,” he muttered, gesturing toward the tiny amount of water in the bottom.

“I’m not scrubbing it,” Claire retorted. “That’s your job.”

He snorted in response.

She knelt down, and placed a smaller towel over the sutures on his thigh.

Next, she used a washcloth to wipe the back of his neck. He insisted on doing his own chest, his legs and feet, his balls. 

“Spoil sport,” she whispered when he took the cloth from her to clean between his legs. He chuckled. 

He was so busy concentrating on his bath that he didn’t notice she’d moved. She was now directly behind him. 

He froze.

“Claire,” he twisted his head around to look for her. Felt her touch instead. Feather-light. Tender. 

He closed his eyes, willed himself not to cry.

“Scabbed over nicely. No drainage.” She stroked him with the cloth, avoiding his wounds.

“They itch like the devil,” he admitted. “As does the cut on my leg.”

“I’ve got something to help with that in my medical bag,” she announced, as matter of factly as she could.

She placed a towel around his neck. “Lean as far forward as you can, and bend your knee so your thigh is out of the way. I’m going to wash your hair.”

“I can –“

“No. You can’t. You’ll get water all over yourself.” She gently guided his head to where she wanted it. A warm stream of water washed over him. He closed his eyes, and let her work the shampoo into his hair. She was gentle, but thorough, her fingers massaging his scalp with just the right amount of pressure. 

He could feel the tension release. He could also feel his body respond. _Let her see what she does to me, _he thought.

He closed his eyes, allowed himself to be lulled by her touch. The words were out of his mouth before he realized he wanted to say them.

“I lay there, in that hospital bed, thinkin’ of ye, after ye’d gone.”

Claire faltered for just a moment, then silently continued washing his hair.

“I truly believed lettin’ ye go was the answer. But then, what ye said would come back into my mind. I tried to picture myself with another woman,” Claire stopped. He could hear her pick up the pitcher of water beside her, “but I couldna conjure up another face. Only yers.”

The water cascaded gently over his head. It felt wonderful as she rinsed out the soap, softly combing her slender fingers through his deep red curls, over and over.

“And then I’d think of ye with another man. One of those doctors at the hospital, or any number of cops at the station I’ve seen look at ye.” 

Claire filled the pitcher to rinse his hair once more. Moved back around and let the water trickle over his head again.

“And?” she asked, casually.

“And the image of ye with someone else would rob me of my breath. My chest felt like it might explode. Raised my blood pressure so high the bells went off.”

She chuckled at that, handed him a small towel to quickly rub his head and rid his hair of any water that might drip down onto his back, then turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom.

Hair dried, he stepped out carefully, wrapped his wet form in the robe she’d left for him, and followed her. She was rummaging through her medical bag. He sat on the edge of the bed, the robe gaping open to the waist. When she found what she was looking for she knelt behind him, gently shifted the material from off his shoulder. He felt her apply the numbing cream that would take away the itch. 

At her touch his mind drifted back to the kitchen. Memories, like a burst dam, flooded reminding him that it might not have been like this. She might have been taken from him, forever. He might have died, and lost her.

“Claire,” he whispered, “I went to ye armed with nothing but my wits and my bare hands. When ye screamed….”

“Jamie, don’t,” her hand stilled, voice pleading.

“How, Claire?” his voice shook with emotion. “How can ye have me like this?”

Her care broke him. Unraveled him. 

“I will have you any way I can. Always.” He felt her lips brush against one of his wounds.

Her kiss was more than he could bear. He dropped his head. Let the tears fall.

She was on her knees before him in an instant. 

“Jamie. Look at me.” His eyes were closed tightly. “_Mo duine gu bhith, seall orm.”_

He shook his head, a small smiled played at the corner of his mouth. _My husband to be, look at me._ Her gàidhlig had really gotten very good. He opened his eyes to stare into the golden warmth of hers.

“Scars won’t chase me away. They didn’t chase you away. Just because your scars are on the outside, doesn’t make them any less painful than the scars I had on the inside. You healed mine. I can heal yours.

“Even now,” she said, cupping his face in her hands, staring into clear, blue eyes, “after all the pain, and death, and heartbreak, I still would make the same choice.” 

Relief flooded through his veins. 

He glanced over toward her pillow. 

She followed his gaze and saw her ring. She’d left it, in another time, on another bed. She reached over, picked it up, and slid it on her finger.

He reached for her, brought her hand to his mouth, and kissed the ring. He kissed her palm, the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. He tugged gently then, and she rose on her knees, slipped her hands through the opening of his robe, encircled his waist, low around his hips. He spread his knees wider so she could get closer, could press her breasts against his chest. He could see her nipples pressing against the cotton of her shirt, the softness of the fabric contrasting with the tight nubs hard against his skin. It was erotic, and sweet at the same time. 

Her mouth pressed against his.

“_Leig leinn seinn_,” he mumbled against her lips, and she chuckled softly.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said, opening her mouth to kiss him again.

Forgetting, he lay back on the bed, and immediately hissed when he felt pressure on his sores.

“_Ifrinn_,” he growled. “Sorcha, I’m sorry.”

“_Feitheamh_,” she said, determined glint in her eye. 

_Wait_, so he did. Waited as she helped him off with the robe. Waited as she pulled back sheets, adjusted pillows. Waited as he settled himself on his side so he was comfortable, his erection obvious, insistent. Waited as she slipped off her clothes and slid in beside him. She faced him at first, scooting as close to him as she could. She kissed him, open-mouthed and ravenous. She wedged a knee between his thigh, keeping his cut out of the way and above her. She ran a hand down his chest until she cupped him. Kneaded him until he groaned in the way a man does when he needs his woman. She wrapped her hand around him, and with an agonizingly slow rhythm she made him swell, and lengthen until he thought he’d burst. 

He managed to touch her, too, to flick and pull, to stroke her, arouse her until she was slick and ready. 

And then she turned, pressed her perfectly round bottom up against him, opened herself to him. 

“Oh God,” he sighed, “Oh, Claire.” He flexed his hips until he was buried in her as deep as he could. 

They lay there, connected, little pulses from each of them as they savoured the feeling of being together. Jamie felt sweat break out on his forehead as he worked to control his urge to move. 

“I left you there,” she whispered over her shoulder, hair cascading down her bare back, “because I knew. I knew you wouldn’t give me up. I knew, with distance, you’d regret it. You love me.”

She pushed back against him, flexed her hips forward until he was almost unsheathed, then pushed back again as he groaned his pleasure. _“Innis dhomh. Innis dhomh gu bheil thu gar gaol.” _

“Aye, I do,” Jamie panted, as he let her set the rhythm. He kissed her shoulder, ran a hand around her hip to cup her apex. “I love ye more than life itself.”

_Tell me, tell me you love me_, she’d said. Gaelic was a funny language, Jamie thought. Translated literally, Claire was begging him _“tell me you’re in love”_. And he was. By God, he was. 

He watched as she worked her hips, accepted him into her body over, and over again. Every thrust a feast for his eyes, as much as his senses, her gorgeous round arse pressing against him time and time again, only to move away, and bring him back home, where he belonged. “I’ve no life but you, Claire.”

Her answer was to push his hand harder against her, to move faster, to ensure her pleasure as much as his own. And when her hips bucked and lost their rhythm, when her muscles claimed him and made him cry out, he joined her in falling over the precipice. 

Claire stirred around noon to find Jamie heavy-lidded and sleepy beside her. She kissed the tip of his nose, rubbed the stubble on his chin. They stared at each other, marveling at the fact that they were together. Whole. Alive. 

After a long moment, Claire spoke.

“I want to move,” she said, quietly.

“So move,” Jamie smiled. “I’m kinda hungry if ye fancy making me somethin’ tae eat.”

She gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger, shook it in mock anger. “I mean, change houses. Move into a new place. One that’s yours and mine. One where I can enter the kitchen without seeing a ghost.”

“Ah. I see.” And he did see. It was enough to carry the scars on his back, he didn’t need to face their torture chamber every day, and neither did she.

He nodded, thoughtfully. 

For as long as she lived, Claire would never forget how he looked when he spoke next. She would never forget the deep blue of his eyes, the sincere intent behind them, his gentle smile, the timbre of his voice, his Scots burr thick with feeling. She would never forget the feeling of peace that washed over her, a peace forged through fear, pain, a broken heart, a damaged psyche, a wounded soul. 

“My life is yers, Sorcha,” He kissed her softly. “It’s yers to decide what we shall do, where we go next. My heart has been yers since first I saw ye, and ye’ve held my soul and body between yer two hands, and kept them safe. Doesna matter where we live. You are my home now.”

## CASE CLOSED.


End file.
